Child Abuse Story FromSteve

This
child abuse story from Steve page was created September 5, 2006 and was
originally posted on August 12, 2006 as story #28.

Steve
is from the United Kingdom

WARNING: This
child abuse story from Steve contains a graphic scene of physical abuse and
dialogue with profanity. If either offend you or you are incapable of reading
explicit material, it's best you not read this story. I generally edit
expletives with the use of asterisks or dashes, but in order to maintain the
integrity of Steve's story, I decided to leave it as written.

The
following child abuse story from Steve depicts sexual abuse at the hands of his
uncle, witnessing sexual abuse of his sister by his brother, physical abuse at
the hands of his father and his brother, and ongoing emotional abuse.

The
child abuse effects on Steve continue. He suffers from suicidal thoughts, and
in his words: "I am now 34 and still feel like a victim and all that comes
with it".

Child Abuse Story From Steve:

If
you are reading this I am dead. 34 is, you may say, too young to die, but it's
okay . . . I've been dead for a long time.

My
life was taken when I was 8 years old, on a sand dune in North Wales. It was
just a matter of time before my uncle started on me. He was not satisfied in
taking my sister's innocence, he wanted it all. He wanted me. And he got me. He
killed me that day, my body just didn’t know it yet.

I
have no real memories of my life before. I do remember playing like normal
kids: water fights with my older brother in the summer in the backyard; my
sister being a pain; I was always wanting to play, but I was quiet, somewhat
shy, different to other kids, not too confident. But then again, at 7, who is?

I
can’t remember any other good times, don’t remember being a child. When I try,
I just see an angry dad, an angry brother, and my sister being raped by my
uncle. It’s odd. I wanted to use the word abused, but it seems lacking in some
way. Rape. That’s the right way of saying it. Of course, I didn’t know what it
was at the time. I had seen it all too often. My uncle came around to sit with
us. Mom and Dad went away, and then my uncle would put his hand down my
sister's pants and tell her he loved her, and if we told our mom or dad they’d
be more angry at us and not love us anymore. Not that they loved us in the
first place, mind. My sister would cry. Something was wrong, very wrong.

Then
my brother started on her. First, just a touch, then more. Much more. He
started looking after us after school.

"If
you tell we are fucking dead."

He
was much older than me and my sister, a bully to us, but a wimp when it came
down to it. I once saw him being beaten up by a girl from around the corner.
But he still scared me and my sister.

The
first time I really understood that something was wrong was the day I came home
after school to find my brother on top of my sister, on the floor in my
parents' room. My sister was crying. At first I thought he was hitting her, but
then he got up and shouted, "Get the fuck out."

He
stood up. His pants were down. He had just done something to her. He kept
shouting, but I just did not hear him. All I heard was my sister crying.

The
next thing, I was in a ball in the corner being kicked. I ran downstairs. He
followed me. Got me in the front room. Held me down. Put the poker into the
fire. Still screaming at me, he pulled the red-hot poker out of the fire and
told me he was going to kill me. It all went black, as if time had jumped.

There,
sitting in the kitchen, were my sister and brother eating sandwiches, as if
nothing was wrong. But something was. My sister never progressed from that
point on. She always stayed as a 7-year-old. The development was over for her.
Time had stopped. Nothing before or after mattered. It was now just survival.
Not life, just survival.

Yes,
of course, I tried to save her. My first plan was easy. Foolproof. Go to school
and tell my teacher that my mom and dad had died, and then they had to give us
a nice American family, like on TV.

I
went to school with the plan going around and around in my head as I went into
Mr. Green's shop on the corner. I tried my lie out. No response. Mr. and Mrs.
Green were too busy trying to protect their stock of sweets from the older kids
to hear me. So with that, I picked up a Curly-Wurly, stuck it up my sleeve and
carried on down the hill to school. The Curly-Wurly gave me added confidence to
pull this lie off; afterall, if you can nic a Curly-Wurly from Mr. Green's, you
can . . . well . . . do anything. I was invincible. But still, at only age 8, I
probably had needed to think about my story more.

I
told my teacher in the schoolyard, just before the going-in bell, chocolate
still around my face. The words came out. "Miss, I will need a new family.
My mom and dad died this morning. Can I get a new one?"

Next
thing I know, I’m sitting in the headmaster's room with my teacher calling home
saying, "Sorry for your loss."

I’d
cracked it. A new family for me and my sister. Here we come. Best of all, we
can live in America, like on TV.

Did
I get a shock when my dead dad arrived to take me home to my dead mom. I think
maybe that’s when my school figured that maybe something was not quite right at
home. Time to die.

"Who
the fuck do you think you are?" my dad screamed at me as I flew through
the back door, into the oven. "Dead. I’m going to kill you, you little
shit. You are nothing. Do you hear me? Fucking nothing. And never will
be."

Again,
flying through the air, this time into the kitchen, as I watched the sink, then
my mom pass me by at speed. I landed smack against the kitchen table. Then it
started. Belt in hand, it was time for a good beating as he ripped my pants off
me.

"No,
dad, NO."

"Don’t
you fucking say no to me." As he held my head down with his hand around my
neck, he began to belt me. "You won't sit down for a week. If you move,
you will feel the back of my hand as well."

I
tried so hard not to scream and cry as my dad was beating me, fag hanging out
of his mouth, his spit dripping onto me. "Dad, no, please no. You're
spitting on me."

"Spit.
I'll show you spit, you worthless peace of shit." At this, he gathered
spit and gob into the back of his mouth, held my head up by my ear, and spat
into my face. "Fucking tell me what to do, will you? You are a fucking
joke. Worthless. Stop your fucking crying or you'll have something to cry
about," [he screamed] as I was dragged by the ear, up the stairs, and into
my room. The door was locked from the outside.

At
least I was safe. I had wet myself, but I was safe. For now.

As
I sat on my floor, listening for any sound, full of fear, shaking, trying not
to cry, all I wanted was my dad to drop down dead, and to not feel scared
anymore.

It
was dark when I finally woke up. My dad was standing in the doorway of my room,
blocking out the light from the landing, as always, a fag hanging from his
mouth.

"What’s
that smell? Have you pissed yourself? Why the fuck have you pissed your pants.
You can stay in them now." He handed me a sandwich, and locked the door
behind him.

A
few minutes passed. I heard my brother outside the room. My dad was shouting.
The door opened. It was him, my brother. He came in. My dad shouted, "Bed.
Any noise out of you two, you know what will happen. Bed. And stay there."

"Dad,
I need to go to the toilet."

No
response. He'd locked the door. We never did see him again that night.

The
next day, it was back to school. As I walked down Mount Street and looked up
over Hendford Hills, there was something bright reflecting back to me. It was
then I knew there was something more. Somewhere safe. And I was going to find
it.

As
I got to the school gate, I ran past, heading down the street.

This
is it. I’m free and I’m going to find my own family, come back and save my
sister. My brother, he can look after himself, the pig.

But
I’m going to miss the A-team.

Sod
it. I can live without it.

But
what will I eat?

Curly-Wurly.
I can nic some more. That’s it. Curly-Wurly will last some time.

I
got into town in about 10 minutes, and was sure that everyone was looking for
me, so I needed to be quick. The co-op was my best hope for food. I waited in
the doorway until people went in, and followed them in, not to look out of
place. I think the fact that I was 8, in a school uniform, never crossed my
mind. I had a mission to get Curly-Wurly, and that was that.

I
did well. I managed to get a Backwell tart and a block of marzipan, followed by
sickness after eating the block of marzipan all in one go, in Gaskins Wood.

I
was sick. I wanted to go home.

But
I can't. I can't give up so easy.

Gaskins
Wood is a spooky place at the best of times. It was said a long time ago: Be I
was walking the earth, a man named whit for it, you are so right, Gaskin is the
name and killing is his game. Legend has it he went around the town killing
people and putting body parts in strange places around town, including the
wood. I think it was put around by the locals to stop local kids from doing
graffiti on the tomb stones, (reminds me of something Billy Connelly, the
legend of comedy said: He will have in very small letters on his stone
"Piss off. You're standing on my balls").

I
had dreams . . . well . . . nightmares of dying at that time. Most nights,
dreaming about being buried alive in Cannock Chase in nothing more than a black
plastic bag.

I
lost my virginity in that wood a few years later, with my brother’s prostitute
girlfriend (maybe I need to keep that one to myself for now).

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stories on this site are true. While I cannot guarantee
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